


What the Winds Brought

by faintyoungsun (sadlygrove)



Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Canonical Character Death, Friendship, M/M, Unrequited
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-21
Updated: 2014-05-21
Packaged: 2018-01-26 00:01:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,499
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1667288
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sadlygrove/pseuds/faintyoungsun
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The wind had brought Bofur to Bag End, wind that stank less of fire and ruin and calamity the more steps he took away from Erebor. The wind pushed at his back, twisted at his braids until it placed him at a door marked with a dwarvish rune.</p><p>He had not been entirely sure what to expect for his first meeting with Bilbo since the lake, the fire, the battle, the--well. Since everything awful. He wasn't sure what to look forward to at Bag End, but the figure that answered the door made Bofur's heart sink.</p>
            </blockquote>





	What the Winds Brought

**Author's Note:**

> Huge thanks to my lovely artist for the accompanying pieces! Aren't they great? Just look at BALIN'S NOSE AND BEARD!! ~AoA~ Please visit her blog here for more Bofur (and other) goodness ---> <http://thejerseydeviledoodleblog.tumblr.com/>

"Master Bofur!"

"Mmm? What's got you in such a rush, young Frodo?" Bofur glanced up from his whittling. "This whistle'll not be done for a few hours yet, lad."

"No," Frodo panted, holding onto the fence for balance. "Dwarves." He took a gulp of air. "Sam said they saw dwarves coming down the road."

Bofur's knife paused. "Oh? How many?"

"Three."

"Three! Mercy me, a veritable army that is."

Frodo's brow crinkled. "Really?"

"Depends on the dwarves," Bofur chuckled as he resumed his craft. "They're headed to Bag End, no doubt. Run along, lad. I'll be here to greet them."

"But--"

"Shoo." Bofur waved him away. "You're to be helping ol' Mr. Took paint the fence by the pumpkin patch, don't leave him waiting."

Frodo still hesitated, biting his lip and glancing back and forth between Bag End and the strip of road in the distance. "But--"

"Go on, lad," Bofur chided. "I'll take care of it, no worries. No ill tidings will befall your uncle while I am here."

Still hesitating, Frodo gave a short nod before dashing the opposite way, dirt flying up from beneath his heels. From the porch, Bofur watched until the young hobbit rounded a bend and disappeared.

"By my beard," Bofur sighed. He turned his attention back to the wood and knife in his hands. "What have the eastern winds brought us today, I wonder?"

 

The same wind had brought Bofur to Bag End, wind that stank less of fire and ruin and calamity the more steps he took away from Erebor. The wind pushed at his back, twisted at his braids until it placed him at a door marked with a dwarvish rune.

He had not been entirely sure what to expect for his first meeting with Bilbo since the lake, the fire, the battle, the--well. Since everything awful. He wasn't sure what to look forward to at Bag End, but the figure that answered the door made Bofur's heart sink.

"What in the world are you doing here?" 

Bofur kept his smile genial as his stomach tied itself into a knot of lead. "Selling turnips, door to door." He waited a beat for a chuckle from Bilbo, who had always been so quick to give them. 

None came. 

Softer, Bofur said, "What do you think? I'm visiting a dear old friend."

"I... what?" Bilbo's nose crinkled. He had bags under his eyes, black and deep enough to swim in. "This is... actually happening."

"Aye," Bofur sniffed, glancing around at the unkempt walkway, plants spilling over stone. "Suppose 'tis."

Bilbo blinked, frowned and--because, Bofur suspected, Bilbo would never completely lose his sense of propriety and good manners--stepped aside. But he did, in fact, grunt and turn his back, not even waiting to see if Bofur followed.

Which Bofur did, because at his core he had never been able to watch a friend suffer.

Bofur's voice echoed in the hollow home: "I'll just set my things in the drawing room, then?"

Bilbo grunted again and retreated to his bedroom, hitching a crocheted blanket tighter around his shoulders.

"Right, then," Bofur said to the sound of a door slamming. "Guess I've got my work cut out for me."

He hung his hat on the hook by the front door and vowed to keep it there until his task was done.

Bofur didn’t see Bilbo well until noon the next day.

"You're still here."

"Oh, Bilbo! Fancy some porridge?" Bofur gave the porridge in question a quick stir, tossing in a fistfull of dried berries. "I found some oats and cinnamon in your mess of a pantry. When was the last time you washed dishes? Had to scour this pot for the better part of an hour, nearly scrubbed right through the iron."

Bilbo sat at the kitchen table, rubbing his temples and catching his blanket before it could slip from his shoulders. "Bofur. Not that it isn't a... pleasure, but. Why are you here?"

"Just wanted to see the Shire again, get out into the fresh air," Bofur shrugged, dishing up a bowl of breakfast.

"Dwarves hate fresh air."

"I've come to enjoy it now and again. Here," he said, sliding the bowl and a spoon over. "Eat." Bofur glanced up and down Bilbo's frame, hoping that was enough of a hint.

Bilbo picked at his meal, Bofur noticed. He puttered around the kitchen, trying to separate the clean dishes and silverware from the filthy. 

"Had an awful time on that Buckleberry Ferry," Bofur said to fill the silence. "Some farmer had two mules on the boat, one with the worst gas since the time Bombur ate those mushrooms outside of Rivendell, I'll tell you. Longest three hours of my life, nearly jumped in the water and swam here instead."

"Bofur." Bilbo rubbed his hands together, brow furrowed. "I do not need consoled."

“Well I do. That donkey was heinous.”

“Bofur.” Bilbo sighed. “Honestly, you did not need to come here. I'm... fine.”

Bofur pursed his lips as he leaned against the edge of the kitchen table, crossing his arms. "Well. Be that as it may, you not needing comfort and all that, your dishes need washing, floors scrubbed, hedges trimmed, and mailbox emptied. If what I've seen this morning is any indication, I suspect there's more to be done."

“I can do it myself.”

“I’ve no doubt. But you haven’t.”

“I haven’t had the time,” Bilbo insisted, voice a bit petulant.

“Oh? When you’ve been so busy doing….?” Bofur rolled his hand, trying to grasp an explanation from Bilbo’s thin mouth.

“A bit of writing,” Bilbo snapped, tugging again at his blanket, his shield. “And, and--crochet!” He waggled a corner of the cover. “See? Busy!”

"If at any time you want me to go, I shall. Only ask," Bofur smiled, not unkind. "And I'll pack my things."

Bilbo's jaw clenched, his eyes going a bit wider. His hand slipped into his pocket, nervously twisting something about, Bofur noted, but after a moment Bilbo sighed, resigned. 

"Well then!" Bofur clapped his hands together, ready to begin. "Where do you keep the hedge trimmers?"

 

Bofur had only to wait an hour before the dwarves showed up at Bag End. He had an inkling of whom it would be; who else would be fool enough to come all this way? Besides Bofur himself, of course.

"Balin! You've shrunk an inch since I last saw you," Bofur grinned.

"And I see you've lost that hideous hat." Balin stood at the gate, an escort on either side of him, two young dwarves glancing around the Shire with something akin to wonder in their eyes. "Is it gone for good, then?"

"Only 'til winter comes again." The corners of Bofur's eyes crinkled, merry and delighted to see an old friend. "You have the whole Shire in a tizzy. They're still not used to our kind."

"Though I'm sure you've been a fine ambassador for the dwarven race, Bofur," Balin chuckled. "It's a wonder none of them threw stones."

"I am the very model of civility and manners and other useless things."

Balin didn't even try to stifle his laugh.

“Now, you know how Bilbo feels about an excess of dwarves in his home.” Bofur pointed down the path with his knife. “But if you two lads have the balls for it, there's a small pub four hills over where the Gaffer'll drink you under the table. Might be he's a pint in already, seeing how it's past morning and all.”

Curious, the two dwarves looked to Balin for approval, fingers twitching around their shoulder packs.

“Go, lads, you've earned it." Balin lifted a stern finger, stopping them in their tracks for the moment. “But see to it that you don't underestimate hobbits. They may seem a simple folk, but they have ways of surprising you, and that's no exception when it comes to drink.” He looked them each in the eye, bushy white brows lifted. “I expect you both to be able to walk a straight line when I come to collect you.”

The younger dwarves nodded, quick to escape to the mysterious Shire pub. Bofur figured it probably seemed as exotic to them as Mirkwood and Gondor alike. He hollered after them: "And watch out for Lobedia! She'll chew your ears off if you put your elbows on the table! And don't I know it,” Bofur muttered, suppressing a shudder. 

Balin's voice was a little too curious: "Lobedia, eh?"

"No, no, forget about it. Come in, Balin, no need to worry after them. The Gaffer's harmless, though his longbottom leaf is another story." Bofur tucked the half-done whistle and whittling knife under his chair, standing to unlatch the gate.

Yet Balin strayed at the thin line between stone and grass, eyes trailing over every bump and curve before him, every blade of green and stroke of new paint upon the door to Bag End. “I never thought I'd be here again,” he murmured.

His smile patient, Bofur held the gate open, rough wood familiar beneath his fingers. “If it's any comfort, neither did I.”

"Aye, lad. I suspect not."

Balin's slow, heavy steps turned no lighter the closer they trod to the circular, Hobbitish door, his hand alighting on the brass knob. He glanced over his shoulder. “Is the master of the house at home and hearth?”

Bofur latched the gate behind them. “Not for a few more hours, I'm afraid. He takes long walks down by the river these days.”

“I see.” Balin's gnarled hand fell, a winter branch heavy under too much weight. “I could rest at the pub with the lads if you'd be so kind as to--”

“Nonsense!” Bofur clapped a hand on an old, stiff shoulder and opened the door with an unnecessary flourish, pushing it on newly oiled hinges. “You're welcome here, make no mistake of it.”

Balin nodded, inching over that final step into Bag End. “Forgive me. I had thought otherwise.”

Bofur waited for Balin to enter the foyer completely before following, shutting the door behind them as soft as he could. Balin still seemed to jump in his skin.

“He doesn't hate every dwarf from here to the Iron Hills, you know,” Bofur said, voice lower than the afternoon light. “You're welcome here, same as I.”

Balin pursed his lips before nodding. "I suspect there's only one dwarf he despises, these days."

“Well.” Bofur cleared his throat. “I won't ask you what you've come here for exactly—that's between you and Bilbo—but I will ask the second most important question hanging in the air: Would you like tea or ale, Balin?”

Balin's smile was grateful. “I think an ale will suffice, lad.”

“Comin' right up,” Bofur grinned. He pulled a tankard straight from the drying rack, patting the last drops of water away with a lacy towel. “Got a fresh barrel from The Prancing Pony's new brewmaster a few days ago, a nice dark stout of oats.”

“It sounds lovely.”

"A fine thing 'tis, both for enjoying and getting pissed."

"I'd expect you to procure nothing less."

Bofur counted the seconds as the last of the ale filled the tankard, dark and brown and deep, scents of oat and chocolate filling the kitchen. As soon as his mouth began to water, Bofur grabbed a second tankard for himself. “So what brings you all the way out to these parts, Balin? Ill tidings or good?”

“I'm not here to whisk him away on another contracted adventure, if that's your meaning,” Balin sighed, leaning heavily against the kitchen table. “But I've put this off long enough, what with preparations to take our people to Kazad-dûm.”

“Long hard work, that." Bofur turned the tap. "Any of those lazy bastards I left behind willing to help?”

Balin nodded, stroking his beard. “Ori and Oin have signed on to be scribe and medic, respectively." 

"Managed to pry Ori from Dori's fingers, did you?"

"Just barely, but Dori can't hide Ori behind his skirts forever. Lad is too bright, too eager to learn of the world. I'm happy to have him and Oin both. Although... We could use more experienced miners to explore the tunnels, see what parts of Kazad-dûm can be salvaged.”

“I'll pass, but I thank you for the sly compliment.”

“Worth a try.” Balin accepted his ale and lifted it high. “Cheers.”

“Drink it all, or may it end up on your head.” Bofur tapped his tankard to the other, keeping the lip of his cup below Balin's, a sign of respect for the elder.

“Aye.” The ale paused an inch from Balin's lips as he looked up beneath his white brows. “Would it be ill received to toast to Thorin Oakenshield in this house, if for the very least that he brought us all together?”

Bofur gave a slight smile, eyes sad. “The day it's fine to do so, I'll pack my things and return to mountains old and tall.”

“Mm. As I feared.” Balin drank deep, downing half the cup in one go. “Say! That truly is a lovely brew.” He licked his lips, looking for all the world like a young dwarf by a sweets cart. "You chose well."

Bofur grinned, wiping white foam from his curling mustachios. “Have a refill, then?”

“I think I shall, lad." The remaining ale was finished in the blink of an eye. "I'd like that very much for what I'm about to do.”

They drank and talked of pleasant memories from the past; they drank more and skirted around difficult memories of the mountain. Bofur offered what advice he could for exploring the mines of Kazad-dûm, just short of 'Don't risk it, you old fool. Don't risk it.' Balin laughed and Bofur smiled, the sun creeping higher into the afternoon sky.

“Bofur?” Bilbo’s voice called out from the foyer. “Are you about?”

“In the living room, Bilbo!” Bofur craned his neck over his shoulder. “Any mail today? Bombur was supposed to send me that recipe for blackberry pie. Missus Hollythorn wanted it.”

"No, no, nothing from that side of the world. Just more correspondence from Sackville-Bagginses, as if they couldn't be bothered to come around for tea. Though I'd rather they not," Bilbo muttered, tossing those particular letters to the side without even opening them. "And it looks as if Mrs. Cotton is expecting a--" Bilbo looked up into his living room and stopped dead in his tracks.

Bofur heard Balin's breath stall in his throat.

“Oh.” Bilbo blinked, mail quite forgotten. “A visitor.”

“Bless my beard.” Balin sighed a great breath, shoulders relaxing by half, his face suddenly touched by sun and ten years youth. “It's good to see you, lad.”

A small smile graced Bilbo's lips, tiny as the first blossom peaking through spring snow. “It's good to see you too, Balin." He clasped his hands behind him. "Welcome back to Bag End.”

“Ah, I'll put on tea for you, Bilbo.” Bofur rushed off to the kitchen, turning away from them both. “I didn't realize the time!”

“You don't have to do that, Bofur, I can--”

“Nonsense!” Bofur found a towel and threw it over his shoulder, securing tea kettle and leaves alike. “I'm getting good at this tea business.”

“You're really not,” came the sigh.

“Then I just need more practice, don't I?” 

He had already filled the kettle with water that morning, so all that remained was to scoop a healthy heap of dried black leaves into the strainer and light the small stove fire. Bofur hummed to himself as he went, back turned in an edifice of politeness as Balin and Bilbo spoke for the first time in ages.

"You look well, Balin," Bofur heard Bilbo say. "I hope the journey was pleasant?"

"We ran into some rain here and there, bandits once, wolves twice."

"And I'm sure no one else will ever run into them again."

Balin chuckled. "You have the right of that."

"You came alone?"

"No; the rest of my party found lodging in Bree. We're scheduled to meet Ori and Oin and their company between here and our destination."

"Oh? Ori and Oin? How are they faring these days?"

"Well, lad. They're both well. Ori’s leg healed nicely thanks to Oin’s continued care. And... yourself? How have you been faring, lad?"

Bilbo answered that question as he always did: "I'm fine, thank you. Just fine."

The fire took hold and Bofur set the kettle atop it, clearing his throat. "Now if you both will excuse me, there's washing to be done while the breeze is still good."

Bilbo didn't even protest. "Ah, thank you, Bofur." His smile was brief, fingers dancing across the stack of letters as he fidgeted. 

Bofur gave a wink. "Think nothing of it."

 

There were times during the first few days that Bofur honestly thought Bilbo would send him away--and away he would go, if that was what Bilbo wanted. But each time Bilbo opened his mouth and squared his shoulders, they inevitably fell, and he'd grumble about where to find the broom or spade, needle and thread.

Bofur dusted and mended, hummed to himself and stoked a fire each night whether Bilbo decided to join him or not. 

In another life, Bofur had taken care of Bifur's headwound, applying salves and bandages, reciting old legends in Kudzhul before Bifur could speak again. He had stood back on the battlefield when Bifur met the orc who had done the deed, watching Bifur’s back as he took his revenge.

He had grasped Kili's left arm, Fili the other, and helped the prince walk again, trod down narrow steps. He spent days running for herbs and water, Fili refusing to leave Kili's side. 

He had helped Bard's girls and lad clean up the kitchen and repair the old table--all in vain, as it turned out, but he had lent his assistance just the same.

Bofur would help Bilbo too, or at least try.

“Did Gandalf send you?”

Bofur glanced up from the needle and thread, puzzled. “Gandalf? I’ve not seen him since--well." Bofur took a long moment to consider when he had last laid eyes upon the wizard and came up blank. "For a long time. Same as you, I suspect.”

It went unsaid that no one had really stuck around Erebor after the bodies had been laid to rest. Not if they didn’t have to. 

But Bofur did. For a little while, anyway. He had felt it his duty to assist Dain and Balin with reclaiming the mines. It helped Bofur clear his head, blowing up all that rock.

"I see." Bilbo pursed his lips and stared at the fire, fingers twitching in his blanket.

“Is it so hard to believe that I’m here of my own free will?” Bofur smiled, beginning to stitch in small, careful pulls of thread and needle, mending an old waistcoat.

"No," Bilbo whispered. "I suppose not."

That was all they spoke of. Though, the next day, when Bilbo emerged from his room without the crocheted blanket, Bofur counted it as a marked improvement.

Bofur was snapping one of Bilbo's shirts free of wrinkles when he heard Bag End's door shut and slow footsteps wind around the side of the hill. He placed a long branch into the ground, the forked bit up into the washing line. The stick hoisted the clothing like sails heading west, flapping in the Shire's breeze.

“You always were the mother of the group, worrying over everyone and everything” Balin said, voice rough.

Bofur just laughed. "I thought that was a title Dori had earned.”

“He was the grandmother.”

“And you the grandfather. You’re done chatting with Bilbo, then?”

“Aye. He spoke highly of all the things you’ve done here.” Balin cleared his throat. “How long do you intend to stay, lad?”

“I'm not so sure. But I'll know when it's time to leave.”

Balin looked at him sideways. “When you know whether or not he'll return your love?”

Bofur laughed, shaking out another wet towel and clipping it to the line. “I'm never going to replace him, Balin, don't think me daft. That's not what I'm here for.”

“You know,” Balin said, jaw tight as if he was tasting something foul, “he wasn't... He wasn't the best at... Well, he could have... Even though he was a king, you're quite...”

“This isn't a case of a pauper and a prince, Balin.” Bofur hung a quilted blanket to the line and stepped back, satisfied with his work. “Bilbo was Thorin's one, anyone could see it. Everyone did see it, myself included.”

“No one’s ever said hobbits are tied by fate the same way dwarves are, lad. Bilbo may, in fact, have two.”

Bofur quashed the butterfly in his stomach as he hung another sock. “That hobbit in there is bound by one thread. You saw him.”

“He seems better.”

“You saw him _that day_ , I mean. That horrible day at the foot of the mountain.” Bofur paused, letting his words sink in. He turned from the wash line to face Balin. “And I've seen him, day in, day out, for seasons now, and he smiles and laughs once or twice.” Bofur frowned. “But I'll never forget Bilbo's face when it happened.” 

Bofur shook his head, images of the mountain returning to his mind as it often did when he let his thoughts wander, when the night was dark and no moon hung in the sky. 

“I've seen ferocious beasts, Balin, same as you. I’ve seen horrible creatures of the dark," he murmured, "and armies as vast as the skies are wide. But never anything so terrible as Bilbo's eyes when Thorin Oakenshield fell.

"Tell you true, Balin, I don't know what I myself would do with a look like that.” Bofur turned back to his task, his wicker basket of soggy clothes. He pushed the mountain from his mind. “I don’t know what to do with one who can have such fire in his eyes.”

“Aye, lad,” Balin said, voice low, almost lost in the breeze. “I saw it too.”

“Then you know there was only ever one dwarf who could match those flames. But take heart!” Bofur took the back of Balin's neck in his rough palm, his fingers wrinkled and cool and damp. “I've always known that I would love him from afar, whether it be from the mountains to here or the vastness of his living room. Makes no matter, Balin. It makes none.”

Balin looked deep into Bofur’s eyes with that scholarly grandfather’s concern he always had. 

Bofur kept smiling, as he ever did.

After a moment, and with a shaky breath, Balin nodded. “I'm off then.” He clasped Bofur's shoulder, a brief yet firm touch. “I've done what I came to do.”

“So soon? You're sure you can't stay a day or two? Bilbo has some spare space, and there's an inn just down the road if y'd prefer, Balin.”

“No, lad, no. Kazad-dûm awaits.” Balin clasped his hands behind his back, eyes roving over Bag End and beyond, inspecting every ounce of the Shire, taking it in as if he could parse it out to share with the others when they descended into the depths of the earth. “We're meeting the rest of our party in a fortnight and must be off.”

“Ah, well. Suit yourself, then. Give them my best.”

“You know, sly compliments aside, there's always a place for you with us. We need all the skilled, brave dwarves we can find to rebuild.”

Bofur rubbed the back of his neck, right where the sun had hit it for the last hour. "Ah, well..."

Balin waited, eyebrows raised.

And for a moment, just a moment, he thought to tell Balin how thoroughly he was done with quests for kingdoms long lost and buried treasure forgotten by most. Bofur thought to ask, after all the loss at the foot of Erebor, why would he double his misplaced bet while there was still a chance to lose again and deepen the cut anew?

But Balin's eyes were hopeful, and this, Bofur knew, was where they differed as dwarves. Balin looked for promises—from maps, from legends, from displaced kings—and Bofur looked for a tankard of ale and a bowl of stew. Balin would always search for that promised kingdom and Bofur would settle for a hill with a freshly painted door. 

Bofur held his tongue, for the most part. “I thank you for the offer. I'll pass today, but you never know about tomorrow.”

“Well, no harm in asking. You know where to find me.” Balin turned to leave, but he stopped, started, and stared down at Bofur's feet. “Are you... barefoot, lad?”

“I am!” Bofur wiggled his toes, feeling the cool clover and soft grass. “It's not so bad, really. Get kind of used to it.”

“Aye,” Balin smiled, eyes fond. “I suppose some of us do. Take care, lad. And take care of our burglar as well.”

 

 

“Wash is done!” Bofur announced as he strode back into Bag End, wicker basket at his hip. “I was thinking of heading to Bree while the light's good to get another barrel of ale since that old coot drank about half of it.”

“And you the other half,” Bilbo snorted from his chair. He was smoking his pipe indoors, the Old Toby leaf tangy and hanging low in the rafters.

This gave Bofur pause. “Or,” he continued, setting the basket aside, “I could stick around. Work on that whistle for young Frodo a bit more. Weather's nice on the porch.”

Bilbo hummed, “As you will,” and made no move to leave the living room and spare his furniture the future stink of old leaf as he was so often fussing about.

Bofur cut his losses, as he was most skilled at. “Well.” He clapped his hands together. “I'll be outside if you need me.”

There was no reply as he left the hobbit hole, but, then again, Bofur hadn't expected one.

 

“Is it finished, Master Bofur?”

“Just 'Bofur', if you like. No need to use pleasantries.” Bofur waggled his eyebrows at the young hobbit. “And I'd say it should be completed shortly.”

“Oh! Do you mind if I watch?”

“Not at all. That paint all up and down your trousers wet or dry?”

Frodo poked at the white patches staining his clothes and arms. "Dry."

Bofur patted the empty slice of bench beside him. “Come on, watch the master of penny whistles at work, young Frodo.”

Frodo hopped up onto the bench, legs swinging. "I saw the dwarves walking out of the Shire. Were they friends of Uncle Bilbo's?"

"One was."

"The one with the big beard?"

"Aye, that one."

Frodo pursed his lips, deep in thought as he watched the whistle begin to take shape. His fingers picked at the dried paint on his skin. “Do you think Uncle Bilbo will take me on an adventure someday?”

“Tell it true?”

Frodo nodded.

“I think your uncle's about had it with adventures, lad. But,” Bofur grinned, “that doesn't mean you'll not go make your own in good time.”

"Oh. That's fine, then. You love my uncle, don't you?"

"'Course I do." Bofur flicked a sliver of wood from his knife, it falling neatly to the pile at his foot. "He's very lovable, isn't he?"

"Most days, I guess."

"He's just a bit sad, Frodo. Give him time. He'll come 'round to his old self again." As soon as the words left his lips, Bofur found that he didn't know if he really believed them. "Well," he amended, "at least a little closer to it, in any case."

"I hope so."

"And, one last notch... There!" Bofur tucked his knife into his belt and brandished the penny whistle. "All done! Ah, ah, ah," he chided, snatching it from Frodo's grab. "Promise you'll take care of her?"

"I promise," Frodo said, eyes wide.

"Now cross your heart."

A tiny finger made a tiny 'x' across a bigger heart.

"All right. And I do solemnly bestow upon thee, Frodo Baggins of the Shire, your first penny whistle." Bofur set the wooden treasure into upturned palms speckled white like a newborn doe. 

"Thank you!"

"My pleasure. Now, hold up your part of the bargain and go to Lobedia's open window where she sets her pies to cool and blast an F sharp."

"O-okay!"

"There's a good lad." Bofur pat Frodo's mop of dark curls. "Off you go."

Grinning, Frodo clutched the whistle to his chest and took off down the road.

"Give her hell, lad! Give her hell!"

"What in the world?"

"Oh! Bilbo!" Bofur grinned over his shoulder. "Just finished Frodo's whistle. He's going to make a fine musician."

“And my nephew’s budding musical talent wouldn’t have anything to do with your ongoing war with Lobedia?”

Bofur brushed a bit of lint from his knee. “I have absolutely no idea what you speak of.”

"I see. I'll pretend I've heard nothing." Bilbo cleared his throat and hid a smirk behind his fist. "Would you enjoy some company, then?"

"Of course. Did you bring leaf with those two pipes behind your back or is that just to tease me?"

"Gaffer's latest Old Toby." Bilbo took Frodo’s spot on the bench. Being bigger in size, his leg brushed up with Bofur’s, a comfortable warmth in the cooling evening.

Bofur took the offered pipe and leaf. "You spoil me, that you do."

Bilbo started, lit match inches from his pipe. "Oh, Bofur,” he sighed, lighting dried leaf. He shook the flame from the match, tendrils of gray floating skywards. “Not as much as you spoil me."

They smoked until the stars came out, Lobedia's shouts mixing with the buzz of crickets.

The last days of summer fell upon them with a string of birthday parties, engagement parties, parties for new babies and parties for any reason anybody could think of. The winds blew in fresh, chill air that coated the Shire. The nights became a little cooler, starlight a little brighter, morning grass heavier with dew.

Bofur found himself thinking of mountains a little more, cooking and cleaning to push them from his mind.

“The day he left the Shire for Kazad-dûm, Balin gave me a string of opals so long I'd have to wrap it around my arm thrice.”

“Oh, is that what he came for?” Bofur glanced up from his knife as he cut lop-sided carrot chunks. “That's lovely. Nice stone, that.”

“It's quite garish.”

“Well, to a hobbit, might be.”

“It was Thorin's mothers'.”

Bofur nearly sliced his finger off. “Ah! I—er, come again?”

“I had never noticed it before, but Balin said it was important to Thorin,” Bilbo murmured, staring into the golden flames in the hearth. Bofur always wondered what Bilbo saw when he gazed at the fire like that, hand twisting at some lint or loose string in his pocket. “And that he kept it on his person at all times.”

“I see.” Bofur had never taken note of an opal bracelet either, but that meant nothing. Dwarves kept their best treasures hidden from prying eyes.

“While they were waiting for me to find the... the...”

“Arkenstone,” Bofur supplied, setting the knife down.

“That, yes, _that_. While they were on the cliff, apparently Balin had updated documents drawn up for those who wanted them, taken additions and amendments, as it were. Gloin wrote a message to his son, Bombur his recipe for plum pie, for you to have actually--”

“Well, that figures."

Bofur nodded. “And... Thorin. Well.” He took another deep puff from his pipe. “Thorin drew up a few annotations to his will.”

“And,” Bofur said after a quiet moment, “the bracelet was one of these annotations?”

Thumb and forefinger caressing his chin, Bilbo continued to stare into the fireplace. “I can't help thinking that if there'd been a moment’s time before the battle that he'd have changed his will again, or torn up those amendments, such was his anger.”

Despite the hard, cold feeling that enveloped his chest whenever he thought about that fight--that treason, on Thorin’s part, not Bilbo’s--Bofur kept his mouth shut. Bofur was neither a liar nor a fool. Nor did he have to apologize for Thorin Oakenshield's transgressions and faults; the King of Silver Fountains could do that in the next lifetime better than Bofur could in this one.

"But those annotations went unchanged, and Balin decided to abide by them," Bilbo went on.

"And he delivered you the opals."

Several minutes passed before Bilbo said anything else, several minutes that Bofur mistook for their conversation being over. He continued to chop carrots.

Then, Bilbo spoke, a crack in his voice: 

"Balin made mention that, to a hobbit, the band would actually be large enough to serve as a crown."

The mountains--one mountain--returned to Bofur's mind so suddenly that, had it been a physical force, would have killed him.

Bofur stilled the knife. “By Alüe…” 

It had been obvious to all of them that Thorin Oakenshield and Bilbo Baggins were bound by one thread. Where that thread led, however, none of them could have guessed, such was Thorin's nature.

Now, though, Bofur knew. It left him breathless.

He felt ready to wretch, seized by a sudden vertigo. He held onto the counter for dear life and balance, staring down at bits of carrot, completely missing Bilbo getting up from his chair and grabbing his jacket.

"Such a presumptuous, self-centered, wholly indecent and f-flashy...." was the last thing Bofur heard Bilbo mutter before the door shut with a quiet, devastating click.

Bofur covered his mouth with his hand and shut his warm eyes. He shed no tears for himself, but for a kingdom that, had tempers been different, would have been ruled by the strong hand of Thorin Oakenshield, tempered by a consort born in rolling, soft green hills.

That would have been the kingdom they had all fought for. And it would have been worth every drop of blood.

"Oh. You're back. Good; it looks like the wind is blowing a storm up from the south."

Bilbo's face fell as he shut the front door. "You didn't have to wait up for me, honestly."

"T'was no trouble." Bofur tossed aside the mending he had started an hour ago. "Did you want some stew? Plenty left over. Still warm, too."

"Well--" Bilbo's stomach rumbled as he approached the kitchen. "Well. I suppose that speaks for itself."

"Take off your jacket and I'll get it for you." Bofur hummed as he puttered around the kitchen, uncovering a bowl of stew he'd set aside earlier. "Salt and pepper?"

"Just the pepper, thank you." Bilbo sat, accepting the bowl with a hungry look in his eyes. "I always got excited when I saw that it was your turn to cook. Nori's concoctions were bloody awful."

"Thieves aren't typically renowned for their culinary skills."

Bilbo's lips quirked into a smile. "And miners are?"

"Someone has to cook down in the belly of the mountain. Besides," Bofur said, stroking his mustachios, "how do you think Bombor got so fat?"

Bilbo chuckled at that, stiffness draining from his shoulders. 

They ate in comfortable silence for a few minutes, listening to the first slow rain drops on the roof and the crackle of the fireplace.

"You know," Bilbo said, dipping his spoon back to the stew, "that was the third time I've walked to the river to throw those stones into the water."

Bofur had suspected something of the sort. "And you didn't."

"No," Bilbo sighed. "No, I didn't."

They finished their dinner soon after, Bofur taking the dishes to the kitchen to wash them. Bilbo helped him dry as the first wave of rain began to fall faster, lightning flickering off in the distance.

When he was toweling off the last spoon, Bilbo murmured, "Why do you think that is?"

"Why what is?" Bofur rubbed his hands dry on his tunic. "Or are you not asking me, but the spoon?"

Bilbo set it and the towel aside. "Why can't I throw those terrible opals into the river?"

The lightning flickered brighter, closer.

With a deep breath drawn through his nose, Bofur set his hands on the smooth, damp wooden counter, bracing. "You know I'm not as wise as Balin or clever as Ori, placating as Dori. Nor do I have Bifur's silver tongue."

Bilbo lifted an eyebrow and folded his arms across his chest.

"Trust me on that. But I ask you this now, Bilbo--do you want my honest opinion, Alüe as my witness?"

The apple of Bilbo's throat rose and fell. "I do."

Bofur nodded, fingers digging into the wood. “You're sad.” 

Bilbo stared at him, mouth agape, before scoffing: “I'm not.”

“You're depressed.”

Bilbo held up a twitching finger. “I'm not.”

“You're not yourself these days.”

“I'm--” Bilbo huffed. “I'm just fine.”

“You're despondent.”

“I'm not.”

“You cannot throw those stones away because you miss him, and you're angry,” Bofur said, voice soft, placating. "You are the very definition of 'not fine', Bilbo Baggins. And that, in itself, is just fine."

“I'm n--” Bilbo choked on his words, eyes blinking back a hot, sudden flood.

Bofur waited, patient as he ever was.

The storm came, outside and in, wind and whisper: “I am not angry.”

Thunder rumbled in the night.

"I am furious,” Bilbo hissed, pupils flint and tinder. “No one—but no one—will ever be as furious as I am, in this moment, at Thorin Oakenshield!” Fat, hot tears tumbled down Bilbo's flushed cheeks, one chasing the other.

“I know it true,” Bofur said.

Bilbo's hands balled into fists, though they did not stop quaking. “What right, I ask you, king or no, what right did he have? To fight, to cast me out, t-to die on that field? What right?”

“I know it true,” Bofur said.

“How dare he!” Bilbo shouted, voice echoing in the kitchen, the hobbit hole, the Shire and West Farthing. “How dare he die?” Bilbo asked, spitting the last word. “And drag those two, those two--dwarrows, children, _boys_ , that’s all they were--to their deaths as well?”

A crack of lightning bleached the kitchen white for an instant.

"And to call for me in his final, selfish hours," Bilbo raged, tears falling fast. "That I had to see him as he choked on that last, awful breath! He could not even spare me of that, could he?"

“I know it true.”

“And that we should--we, we should have been… Could have been!” Bilbo’s fist collided with the table. “A crown, he gives me, from where I cannot touch him, see him, yell at him--kiss his horrible face!”

Bofur waited, one last time, steady as a riverstone.

“How,” Bilbo choked, knees giving out, eyes green again. “H-how dare…” He sucked in one humongous, shaking breath as his strength melted away. “I miss him, so, so much, Bofur, I...”

“I know it true.”

Bofur thread his fingers through sandy curls thick with Longbottom Leaf and an ending summer. “I am sorry for your loss, Bilbo. Truly.”

On the kitchen floor, Bilbo wailed.

The storm passed within the hour, worms and mud drudged up from the earth. Ground soaked, waited for sunrise, and it came as it always did, to dry the droplets in the grass.

 

“I am ashamed that I put this all on you.”

“Beg pardon?”

Bilbo hugged his mug of lukewarm tea closer to his chest. "I've been a terrible host," he murmured, staring into the dying fire. His eyes were rimmed red from tears and exhaustion.

"No offence," Bofur said, smoke curling from his nostrils, "but I wasn't expecting you to be a gracious one."

The living room turned purple to gold as the sun came up, the first morning birds chirping at the window. Bofur lit another pipe, smokeless sanctity of the living room be damned, tightening his arm about Bilbo's shoulders.

"Sometimes I think I can bring him back," Bilbo whispered, eyes locked on a singular flame flickering in the hearth. "If I just try, just wish it hard enough, the wind will blow him back to my door. I could, I reckon.” He nodded, sure of himself. “I could do it."

Such was the conviction in his voice, Bofur found himself believing Bilbo’s claim. "What's keeping you?"

Bilbo seemed to snap out of his trance, remembering that he was not alone in Bag End. He sighed, relaxing into Bofur's hold. "I wouldn't know whether to kiss him or punch him in the nose."

Bofur smiled at that.

 

They walked to the river two days later, to the wooden bridge warmed by the last sunlight of summer. The opals were in Bilbo's left pocket, Bofur knew, for they clicked against each other with each heavy, bare-footed step taken.

Hobbit and dwarf watched the water for an hour, one or two vegetable carts and ponies passing them with polite greetings. Bofur smoked, Bilbo shred a late-blooming daisy petal by petal. The sun dipped a little lower in the sky, and Bofur refilled his pipe a second time when Bilbo finally broke the silence.

"This isn't where I want it to end."

Bofur blew a ring of smoke. "Beg your pardon?"

A sigh, deep as wind blowing through a valley. “You were not the one I expected that day, but I am happy it was you at my doorstep.” Bilbo glanced at Bofur and rapped his knuckles against the bridge in a nervous gesture. “Would it be unkind of me to ask you one last favor?”

“It wouln’t be, I don’t think.”

Bilbo nodded. “When you leave the Shire and return to the mountains--any mountain--will you take the opals with you, and lay them to rest?”

With a small frown, Bofur tapped the spent ash from his pipe, and watched it flutter to the water below. “Will I lay your heart to rest, you mean.”

“I know that it’s said that time heals all wounds,” Bilbo murmured. “But not this one. I’ll never love like that again. Nor would I want to.”

To his surprise, Bofur felt a weight lifted from his chest, his ribs, his lungs. Like a package tied too tight, twine suddenly snipped away. 

He smiled and, after a moment of watching sunlight glint on the stream, said: “What makes you believe I’m in such a hurry to leave you, Bilbo?”

A rueful look crossed Bilbo’s face. “It is also said that all dwarves will one day return to the mountains, is it not?”

“Aye,” Bofur said, voice low. “It ‘tis. But think of it as me returning home, and not as leaving you.”

Bilbo nodded, plucking the last petal from the flower and tossing it to the rushing stream. “We shall meet again, I’ve no doubt, Bofur. The wind will bring you to my door another day.”

 

On a brisk autumn day some months later, Bofur shook the dust from his leather hat and donned it once more.

"Do you have everything?" Bilbo looked over the pack, a crease of worry between his brows. "Flint and tinder? A blanket? I could make more sandwiches, it'd only take a moment--"

"I've everything I need, Bilbo," Bofur chided. "Don't fret!"

"You'll meet Frodo by the ferry, right? He'd be so mad if you went to Moria without seeing him."

"Yes, yes, of course."

"Good. Well." Bilbo looked around the garden and hedges, at the last fat beetles buzzing in the grass. "I... suppose that's it, then."

Bofur chuckled and pulled Bilbo into a tight hug. He would would wait all day if it were up to a Baggins to initiate one. He took one last deep breath of summer and leaf, and planted his lips to Bilbo’s temple for only a second.

Bilbo sighed deeply, squeezing back. "Thank you, Bofur. For everything you've done."

"Think nothing of it." He grinned and released Bilbo, hand clasped tight on his shoulder. “Take heart, Bilbo. I know these coming days will not be easy, but you'll see him again in time, I've no doubt.”

Bilbo stared at Bofur, amazed and sad all at once. “How do you figure that?”

“Well,” Bofur sniffed, shrugging his pack higher. “I find it that in all the legends, such a paltry thing as death is never enough to keep apart two beings so entwined. If death is a curtain of silver, like th' Elves say, what's to keep one from waiting just on the other side?”

Bilbo's laugh was fond if not disbelieving. “In old stories and fables, I'd believe it. In legends, Bofur.”

“That's just the thing though, isn't it?” He smiled, crooked teeth and all, and tipped his hat. “The two of you are legendary now, aren't you?”

The winds blew Bofur from the Shire on a chilly morning, a rising sun dyeing the sky like a band of opals.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! You can find me on tumblr as faintyoungsun as well. Once in a blue moon I write, but I do reblog some hilarious cat gifs, so there's that.


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